When You Were Young
by Stephane Richer
Summary: We're burning down the highway skyline on the back of a hurricane


When You Were Young

Disclaimer: I don't own Tite Kubo's _Bleach_ or The Killers' "When You Were Young"

Absentmindedly, he stirs his tea. A leisurely glance out the window tells him the sky is not yet right, the sun is not yet deep yet. It is still at that burning, indecisive stage in the day when you can't be sure if it's going up or coming down, especially when you don't know Karakura Town.

But Kisuke Urahara knows Karakura Town, knows that Ururu is falling down, tripping on the dust she is trying so hard to sweep and that Kon is trying to escape from Yuzu's clutches yet again. He knows that there are some secrets, supernatural and all too familiar, lurking beneath the skins of hospital doctors and patients, of teachers, of students, of adolescents playing soccer and of convenience store clerks. Urahara knows that the sun is traveling toward its doom gracefully, and only to rise again, a phoenix, the next morning. But some golden time between now and then, a tangible, existent, and all-too-natural period of time, will happen.

He takes a sip. Damn. Still too hot.

The sun has moved marginally. Still too slow.

He has time, though. The fruits of his wait will come soon enough, and soon and sure, they do, in the form of one Ichigo Kurosaki. He glides along in that oh-too-tantalizing school uniform, bag slung casually over his shoulder the way all schoolboys carried them. Yet...with Ichigo, it is never stilted, never intriguing or out of place. It just is, the way everything about Ichigo just is.

The way he leaves his shoes at the door (damned if some of that reinforcement didn't pay off), quietly, casually, but still, just like Ichigo...he really is a loud presence, even without the reiatsu. And he sits down across from Urahara, legs crossed, pours himself tea and allows himself a grin, a perfect grin before he sips.

"Sencha today?"

Urahara's hat is drawn back, a little further up his forehead. "Didn't know you'd come to recognize the difference between types of tea yet. I'm impressed, Ichigo."

The redhead rolls his eyes. "Yeah, right."

The kid's eyes catch the light, reflect tans and ambers and deep chocolates and siennas and whoa and Urahara is about to reach over right then and-

"Hey, are there any onigiri left?" It's Jinta, entering the kitchen for yet another snack.

Inwardly, Urahara sighs. This always happens, and he always forgets to distract them for the afternoon beforehand. Damn. Outwardly, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of cash. "Go buy something. Onigiri, or whatever you want. Treat Ururu-both of your meals are on me."

Jinta takes the bills and quickly leaves the way he came, and, luckily for Urahara, does not forget to shut the door, although he does bang it a little too loudly. Now they won't be bothered. Tessai was liberally blessed with both sense and sensitivity.

Before Ichigo can take another sip of tea (he can always brew more sencha, after all) Urahara reaches over and grabs his face, pulling him into a kiss. Ichigo, as is always his wont in these meetings, kisses back, firmly, strongly. Perfect. He tastes like sencha and salmon and something else, the same thing that Ichigo always tastes like. Naturalness, perhaps, the same trait that makes Ichigo Ichigo. Urahara is leaning so far across the table now, pushing Ichigo backward and spilling tea all over his coat. No matter, that would be discarded soon enough. IE, right now.

He allows Ichigo to clamor on top of the table to join him, and soon the rest of their clothes are discarded, bit by bit. Clothes are so annoying, always getting in the way, and taking them off almost makes him flaccid. Now that Ichigo is right next to him, naked and waiting, things are different, however.

Urahara attacks his body with bites and caresses and bumps, listens closely for the mewls and whines and moans. Ichigo is a loud lover, a fact he has found most unsurprising. After a few minutes, enough is enough, and he brushes his cock up against Ichigo's ass, and the younger man complies by spreading his legs as much as he can on the small table, and Urahara inserts himself roughly, no lube. Ichigo yowls like a cat, a tiger, maybe, as Kisuke drives in and out, faster and faster, until they both release, nearly simultaneously, a force so strong it breaks the table, leaving them lying in a most unromantic position between two jagged slices of wood covered by their now-torn clothing.

Perhaps they should not have left those on the table.

Nevertheless, they lie together, but not touching (never touching), in this little world. It is these few minutes that Urahara allows himself to daydream. Of the Soul Society (home, whether he likes it or not) and of belonging, completely, to a world he could trust. Even Ichigo has a better shot at that than he who is now so cynical and jaded. There's nothing romantic or beautiful about that.

Slowly, Urahara gets up, grabs what is left of his clothing, leaves the room through the empty hall for his bedroom. No footsteps follow him. Ichigo understands the limits. No, he sets them. Ichigo does not know what this can, should, does mean. Does not want to, probably. Maybe this is breaking him, fucking up everything the way Urahara's world was fucked up. But, it has to happen sooner or later. No matter how jaded you are, you can always get worse. Urahara knows that better than anyone out there with few exceptions.

Who is using who, even? The clean outfit feels strange against his skin.


End file.
